Here is the Deepest Secret That Nobody Knows
by tore-my-yellow-dress
Summary: Everything in life has a consequence. WIP.
1. Hand Covers Bruise

Tile is harsh on the press of her knees, and her eyes water, partly from the physical strain, and also because she was awoken from heavy slumber, the kind of dreams that are colorful and vivid and as fresh as the taste in her mouth. She told herself food poisoning yesterday morning, a stomach virus the day before- and now, any normal woman would call a doctor, make an appointment. Face facts.

She looks at herself in the mirror when she finishes, listens to the running of the plumbing through apartment walls, thinks of secrets disappearing like lost shooting stars. Olivia does not recognize the woman in the mirror; the sickly pallor and the chapped lips. This is not _her._

Icy liquid shocks her epidermal nerves when she fills her mouth with it once, twice, but even then the taste persists, makes her clench her nails into the palms of her hands and place one over her eyes against the blinding light of the bathroom. As soon as she finds the will to flick off the switch and pad back into her bedroom she breathes out, forgets it, delete, delete, delete.

The fact is: Olivia's routine will consist of this the day after, and the day after that. The fact is: Although she pulls the sheets up to her chin and closes her eyes, she does not fall back asleep because thoughts of lullabies and bedtime stories drone, smother her until she's left with an alarm clock that cries shrilly, which in turn makes her think of late night wake ups.

She aches for that.

She wants, wants something that she cannot have, imagines Fitz rubbing her swollen feet when she finds a pair of heels for the day, of Fitz's blue, blue eyes and of a carbon copy of those imprinted against a button nose and pouting lips. When she shows her card at the security clearance she thinks about her own childhood, and how her father was always protecting her, keeping her safe in the own way a Daddy can. Liv rubs her hand along the wall on the way to her office in a snare attempt to find some sort of solidity.

Like that will actually ground her to reality.

Brita smiles at her, always pleasant Brita, with the one year old at home that she enjoys showing off wallet pictures of at every opportunity, and Olivia can imagine that for herself, she really can. Contrary to popular belief, she is not an entirely career driven woman. She wants this.

She _wants _it.

Olivia sits down at her desk, and runs her fingers over her lips, her bruised lips, lips that not two nights before had been ravished by a hungry mouth in front of the constitution, in front of a piece of paper.

Telling him the truth that rolled off her tongue like prayer was effortless in comparison to this- because weight is heavy on her shoulders with the knowledge that although she may love this, although she may want this with every fiber of her being, she cannot have this.

Scraping her fingernails across wood surface, she counts backward, finds the window would have inauguration night pointed out with red stars and black sketching, and although those articles she read back in college for entertainment are likely myths, she thinks downwards, _You were conceived on the Resolute desk, little one. Of all places._

Since she was a hot headed eighteen year old she's had standards about how her life should be. Hopes and dreams, blind faith in herself that she'll always choose the right thing, deter herself from materialistic means, vanity, men who will never appreciate her for her worth, and she'd thought that any married man who cheated on his wife would include at least one of the mark offs. But Fitz defies everything she's ever believed in.

Fitz makes her _live, _shows her tastes and colors she's only dreamed of. She fell in love with Fitz because he was someone worth falling in love with.

And now, now the idea of carrying something with her that is half of his brilliance, something they made out of absolution and undefined, irrevocable love fills her with warmth and peace like she's never known.

If only-

If _only-_

She was not sitting where she was. Olivia knows publicity. Olivia knows scandals. Therefore, Olivia can see the headlines in black and white ink:

_President Has a Mistress_

_President's Girlfriend Pregnant?_

_Mistresses and Bastards: President Grant's Legacy_

_President Grant's Impeachment Pending_

It makes her head swim. Bastard. Bastard is what they'd call this otherworldly beautiful thing with blue eyes and Fitz's smile- she promises herself not to become attached, but that's a lost cause. Detachment is thrown to the wayside, even though her consciousness still won't let her breathe. Because somehow, the idea of ruining this soul with lies and deception is worse than any kind of slam she would take.

What kills her is that she knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that Fitz would give up everything for her, if she asked it of him. And even if she didn't, Fitz would never stand for allowing her to raise the life without him there, by her side. And she imagines that they can have this, maybe.

_Maybe._

Maybe in eight years, after his presidency ends and circumstances are simple and divorce is optional. Maybe they can have dinner and hold hands _in public, _such an idea rattles her to no end, because maybe _they could-_

Fitz, in a tuxedo; her, in a white dress-

_They could. _

Just not right now. Just not like this.

Any amount of wishing and praying will not change it.

Therefore, Olivia vehemently pushes back the fantasy, and invites the reality to live in her chest, fill her with doubt. She picks up her phone off the side table, and searches through her contacts. She stares at the number for a very long time.

Her eyes are glassy by the time she presses the call button.

**/**

Although being in the position she is, she could have easily handed off the briefs to one of her aids, she didn't, and that alone proves her selfishness, proves that despite everything she wants to look him in the eye and know what she's throwing away. The door closes softly behind her.

"Mr. President," Olivia says stiffly, holding the papers in front of her, nearly as a talisman. A shield, regardless of the fact a year dictates that Fitz would never hurt her with intent.

"Liv," he looks up, smiling at her broadly-

And all she can think is that he needs to quit that, he needs to stop, because she doesn't deserve that smile or that life, she doesn't deserve his kindness right now.

She clears her throat. "These are the briefings from-

"I know," he says warmly, cocking his head and jerking his finger in a hither motion. "Just lay them somewhere; I'll get to them tomorrow."

Olivia hates that her legs are unsteady for support when she's crossing the short distance. Her movements are jerky, and Fitz notices that, confusion marring his handsome features. "Livvie?" he inquires gruffly.

He only says her name- nothing else- because that tone relays every bit of worry that evades him. She steps back, but doesn't leave, even though her mind is screaming at her to find the door and run. It's as if a part of her wants him to know, wants him to grieve with her over what she has to do.

Fitz stands up from his chair, the height difference incredibly pronounced when he walks around to stand in front of her, look down at her with beseeching eyes, mouth pulled down at the corner.

She longs to scoot up on her tip toes and kiss it away.

Instead, she simply says, "Yes?"

That voice is not her own.

It is a mere whisper, hoarse, as if she's been screaming at the top of her lungs for a very long time. That's what she feels like. Exhaustion.

"Livvie, is it," she watches his Adam's apple bob when he swallows. "us?"

And right then she almost wants to laugh in his face, because since when is it _not _about him. Since the moment she waltzed into his life she's been stuck in a constant battle of hating to love him and _loving him. _

She shakes her head.

The words begin to spew out of his mouth, because he's getting scared, he's getting afraid that she's making decisions without him, she knows him, she sees the thought processes.

"Is it Mellie? She came by earlier with my flag pin- I lost it at the Archives- that's fine, Liv. Did she say something to you? I swear if she did, I'll-

"_No," _she murmurs harshly, nearly out of breath because the pain that's in her chest is the worst kind, the brand that makes her unable to think straight, makes her want to go home and curl up in bed for a few days and not deal.

"Olivia?"

"I'm pregnant."

His mouth opens slightly, but he gets a handle on himself.

Eight seconds. She counts it out in her head- the amount of time it takes for him to comprehend, to realize. And she expects anything but his next words. She expects anything but his smile, the way he looks _so happy _that's knives through her gut, bleeding out slowly.

He wraps his arms around her and pulls her to his chest, seemingly unworried about the cameras, about the _facts._

Her nose is pressed uncomfortably against his shoulder, but she basks in it, breathes him in and clings to him because she'll remember this moment the rest of her life. "I can't keep it," Olivia's voice is flat, unfeeling.

She doesn't deserve to feel right now.

He unwinds his arms around her and tilts her chin up so that she has to face his scrutiny, his blind faith. "Why not?"

His voice is surprisingly calm, as if he wants her exact rationale.

She gives it to him in terse whispers.

"Because you are the President of the United States. Because you are married, and already have children who depend on you, a country who depends on you. And _I, " _her face crumples and she inhales sharply, a sob crawling up her throat. "_I am _your mistress."

He stares at her for a very long time, phrasing his words in his mind until settling on the truth. One wide palm goes to the back of her head, and she can't help but lean into his touch when he rubs it soothingly.

"Livvie, I want _you. _I want _this. _I'm not running for a second term, that much was decided the moment I won, because all of this doesn't matter if I can't have you, if I can't be with you. You are _not _my mistress, you are the love of my life, and I _want _a family with you, Olivia. I'll admit, the timing could be better but-

He breaks off, shaking his head and pulling her closer until their foreheads are resting together. "We belong together, Olivia. Do you want the baby?"

She looks taken aback, stomach coiling at the _word. _

"_Yes," _because how could she not? "But-

"No, Livvie. This is going to happen. It kills me that I'm asking this of you, but will you wait for me? It tears me apart that I couldn't be your husband, be a father to our-

"You can't be," she says quickly, suffocating under the pressure and fire the words of his ignite. "You can't be right now-

"Right now," he nods. "But I will be, the moment all of this ends. Wait for me? _Please. _Wait for me. Just wait for me, and I will divorce Mellie _in office _if I have to, but-

"Okay," she murmurs, because she can't take his pleading.

He kisses her once, chastely, a promise, despite the cameras.

"I'll wait for you, Fitz," she lies.

What she wants to say is, _it's killing me, too._


	2. Until We Bleed

It's not something that every leaves her, the feeling of the car's door handle beneath her hands, the shake of her pen when she writes her information, the way the nurse's kind eyes were bright and lovely and blue. But she pushes blue away, she pushes this away.

It's the moment she hits sleep that she will always, always remember by the press of a needle in her arm and the state of delirium that she finds months and years later, waking her in a cold sweat. It's the nightmare she chose to live. It's the moment she turns her back on happiness, on Fitz. She knows exactly what's she's doing.

When she wakes, her senses are dulled, which the people who help her up, out of the bed, tell her it's alright, that it's expected. They tell her it will end (although she knows like she knows the shades of blue that it will not). They give her a phone to call.

Her own limbs are foreign to her, discombobulated and out of place, and all she truly wants to do is curl up as best she can and clutch her stomach because it's the hurting that means it's healing, it's the pain that means it's worked. Abby's asking her if she's okay.

_She won't be okay for a very long time. _

"Abby," her own voice sounds dead to her ears, lifeless.

"Abby, I need you to come pick me up. I'm at...I'll give you the address."

/

They give her pamphlets and procedures and it's around the time that they explain to her when it's healthy to engage in regular sexual activity again that she puts up a hand to halt that thought. "Alright."

She thinks that they have no idea who she is, and what she's done.

Even then, after she's empty and not at all whole, she doesn't quite comprehend the severity of her actions. She won't for a long time.

/

Abby hugs her.

Olivia tries not to cry.

/

"I need you to take me to my work," she explains once they're in the car.

Abby is uncharacteristically timid, and Olivia understands, she really does, because until this moment Olivia has been the strong beacon of light, and now she's a battered, weak street lamp- and she gets it. She gets it. The redhead leans forward and rests her forearms on the steering wheel, biting her lip. "Liv, you should probably go home," she suggests lightly.

Olivia ignores her. "Did you bring the-

"The change of clothes are in the back seat, along with your makeup bag. Liv-

"Take me to work."

Abby opens her mouth, and then shuts it again. She puts her keys in the ignition. Liv knows that Abby will never understand how grateful she is that she didn't argue with her.

/

Cyrus stops her before she gets past the offices.

"Olivia," he calls out, and she stops abruptly, stomach rolling. "Liv," he catches up to her, eyebrows furrowing. "You don't look good."

"I have to see Fitz about something," she explains dumbly, mouth cotton, leaving him to watch her walk away. She doesn't know it then, but it's the last time she'll see him face to face for nearly a year and a half.

/

His secretary nods to her, and she opens the door as if it weighs a million pounds. Was it hours before that she had been in the same position, different circumstances. Everything makes her soul ragged and shards, everything makes her tired.

_What have I done? _She thinks.

She knows exactly what.

"Livvie!" And that look on his face, that smile that freezes and fades, that's what kills her, because if this was anything else she would be able to fix it and go on. She would be able to move on. But she can't, because it's him, with his blue eyes and what has she done, what has she done, what has she done. "Liv?" it's softer, cautious.

Fitz rises from his desk, a film in a loop, and walks toward her.

"I'm sorry," she says brokenly, because that's all she can do, and even though she knows the reprecussions and she wouldn't undo what she's done she still won't forgive herself because he won't understand. His eyes tell it all.

"What?" And then his expression goes painfully blank, almost as if he's been sucker punched and left to hang a million miles away from where he was seconds before.

She doesn't have to say anything. It dawns on him immediately.

And it kills him, too. Because despite circumstance he'd seen it in his head, he'd hoped, he'd wanted. He thought she wanted that too. It finally, finally rushes over him, and he's filled with an unbelievably rampant ball of ruminating something, whether it be anger or devastation-

"Why?" he says sharply, cutting the air with the suddenness. Olivia looks up, focuses.

"We couldn't have, Fitz. Not, not right now-

"Not _ever."_

Olivia had expected that. She swallows.

"Okay," she murmurs, off kilter. Taking, taking, taking. "Okay."

"I thought you wanted-" he breaks off, tearing a hand through his curls, something ripping in his chest. "I thought you knew that I would've-

"It's not enough," she admits, allowing honesty to lay bare.

All he hears: _You're not enough._

It's an ugly thing, the way his father's words can come back to him. The way whimsy insecurities can tear down fragile masterpieces of perfect synchronization, and the way everything can fall apart quicker than it's built. Ugly.

It's all so _wrong._

"I don't think I'm ever going to forgive you for this."

She has to put a hand on the desk to stop herself from swaying. She smiles, face crumpling, unable to, unable to-

"I know," she whispers. In one clumsy motion, she reaches into her bag and pulls out one pristine piece of parchment jotted with black ink. She lays it on his desk.

It's a resignation.

"I don't think we could ever..." Liv exhales sharply, suddenly blinking back stinging tears. She shakes her head wordlessly, taking a step backward, fleeing, run, run, run.

"I should go."

The guilt eats at her; how dead he looks. Gone. She'd done this.

She's doing this.

A knock at the door- somebody fetching him for the State of the Union. She's selfish. She knows she is. She can't help it.

She knows this is the end. She knows it's happening because he won't speak to her. He won't say a word. Fitz simply nods, moving away from her, won't even look at her.

"Go," he tells her.

So she does.

/

She doesn't hesitate to go straight to her bedroom when she gets home that night.

The television is ominously silent, a rarity, but there is still an exception to most nuances and it seems like her life is the ultimate contradiction. Olivia Pope cannot quite fathom when she teetered over the proverbial cliff, but she did.

An oceanic bliss had swallowed her whole, a blazing flame consuming, spreading like wildfire to dry grass and ignites something she never thought could reach so deep and run so wide-

Love: that's what it is, or was, or could have been, or should be.

Mechanically toeing off heels and ridding herself of her clothing, she crawls in only her underwear because the warmth that rises in her flesh is heinous and she wants to drown in the drafty air of her apartment. Fabric is a cool reprieve.

Liv still thinks she might be running a fever.

Burying herself in the blankets, she rolls to her side and focuses on her breathing. She stares at the neon numbers of her alarm. The State of the Union ended a half hour ago. He's probably just getting in, swinging by his office-

She imagines him studying the the bleak message on her resignation, maybe even chucking it in the waste bin.

This is her undoing.

A strangled moan falls from her lips, and her face contorts. Something is crushing her, a thousand tons of cement on her chest, so heavy that for a moment she thinks she might be dying. That's what it feels like.

It feels like someone is tearing her limb from limb, brutally slow.

Clawing at air, her hands eventually find an extra pillow and hold tight, clutching it to her stomach and squeezing, squeezing until she can clearly make out the pulse of blood in the veins of her wrists. No tears are spilt.

Olivia's entire world comes to a grinding halt, every semblance of hope literally abandoned, because it's only been minutes and it already aches of leaving a piece of her soul behind. She already reeks of baggage and broken fragments. She already has her heart splayed, torn wide for the world to bare judgment. It's the matter of who inflicted it that is left behind locked doors and dirty bed sheets.

In that moment, she wishes to fall asleep and never wake up, if she's fated to live the rest of her life with this loss, this guilt.

She reaches out, and turns off the light.

She chose this. She _chose this._

/

When he staggers into the bedroom, Mellie is already there, reading a book by the lamp, glasses neatly perched on her nose. She looks up at him, and frowns.

"Fitz, what's wrong?"

He begins to unbutton his shirt, unaware to his trembling fingers.

His mouth is dry.

His head hurts.

He can't _breathe _properly.

_Everything, _he wants to tell her.

"Olivia's gone," he tells her. He doesn't tell her about the baby, about the future that fell through his fingers before he could blink.

The words are strangers in his mouth; bitter in taste. Voice void of emotion; he's a good liar. He's always been the best pretender.

Mellie's eyebrows furrow, confusion true and yielding. "What?"

Fitz's mind searches for the words. He comes up short, for all Rhoades scholar worth. But the bite of loss is only asking at the edges of him. This cut is fresh, but not terribly deep. The bleeding out is what really does the killing, the minute by minute rapture.

Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III is in shock.

Mellie realizes that.

"She…resigned? Did she say why?" she prompts lightly, starkly aware she's on thin territory. A flash of contempt goes through her, because she thinks that Olivia should _know better. _

"Career opportunities," he manages hoarsely, throwing on a shirt laid out.

As she tilts her head to the side, the brunette purses her lips, deciding her next move.

"Maybe it's best for her."

His head snaps up so quickly she thinks he might get whiplash. The reaction is instantaneous because he hadn't even confronted that; the meaning of the knowledge wounds him, stepping on shards of glass. "Best?"

"Well, she had talked about starting her own firm. Her time here will have gained her a lot of political backing and people know her. I'm sure she'll be very happy," Mellie assures.

He imagines it. Olivia, running a successful business, doing what she does best. Olivia, meeting a man. Sleeping with a man. Loving a man. Marrying a man who can give her an easy life. Having children with someone who isn't him. Having _children._

He thinks he might throw up.

Instead, he nods. Happy. She'll be _happy._


	3. Landfill

"Want another?" the bartender motions to their drinks, and Abby smiles sweetly, leaning forward to expose a hair more of her cleavage. Olivia rolls her eyes.

"Yes, thank you," she murmurs, reaching into her purse for her card, but the bartender stops her.

"That guy at the end is buying for you ladies."

Abby nudges her conspiratorially, throwing a look at said individual. The man is tall and unassuming, with a fringe of blonde hair that falls across his forehead. He grins boyishly at them, causing the redhead to giggle, already a bit tipsy.

"Thanks, Liv," she says after a moment, turning her attentions back toward her friend.

Livy quirks her mouth. "I hardly bought you that drink."

"No," Abby pauses, suddenly serious. "Today is the day that bastard said he'd love me forever. Thank you for spending it with me. Thank you for being my friend."

A tired look falls across Olivia's face, but she nods. "Don't thank me. Have fun. Prove him wrong."

The guy starts to walk toward them, and abruptly Abby pulls her by the arm. "Hey, you need to find someone, too. You can't be alone forever, Olivia Pope. Hook up with that guy. I dare you," she points out someone at a table.

Olivia grows distant, eyes darkening.

Abby recognizes her mistake immediately, opening her mouth to make amends, but Olivia shakes her head to stall.

It's not that she couldn't. She's not attached to anyone, technically. But the mere thought of kissing a man with different lips than the ones she's memorized, branded into her mind, being touched by hands that aren't calloused and scarred from a ranching accident when he was twelve, is unimaginable. It turns her stomach.

It wouldn't be cheating, but it would feel like it, because a fact is a fact, and months of hardly sleeping and reaping the consequences and knowing, knowing, knowing, knowing that she'll live the rest of her life like this takes its toll.

"I can't, Abby," Olivia murmurs softly, so quiet that Abby barely hears her. "I can't."

Liv takes a long swig and rolls the liquid around in her mouth, lets it burn.

"Okay," Abby says, and changes the topic.

/

"Here are your Pakistan briefings, sir," Amanda Tanner reaches out to hand the parchment to him, a coquettish gleam in her eye.

She allows them to fall from her hands.

The sound of papers hitting the floor makes Fitz look up from his doze, watching her intently as she picks them up. His eyes minutely travel over her backside, not at all interested, but seeing. His senses are still keen.

Amanda Tanner blushes a deep red, and begins to murmur apologies.

She seems really young, reminiscent of Karen almost, and that has him shaking his head fondly. "It's alright. What's your name, again?"

He's none the wiser, but her insides swell with success. "Amanda."

"Amanda," he echoes when she's finally gathered up the papers and put them in his hands. She has small hands, he notices.

Like-

He stops himself. He can't go there. He won't go there.

"Well," he says, gathering himself. "I hope you have a good day."

/

Stephen is wrist deep in the bowl of popcorn and she's cupping her glass of wine.

The television hums steadily; a Republican senator and his wife are pursuing a divorce and the custody battle is nasty enough to make news. Olivia regards the headlines with a frown. "The senator needs help. He's not handling the press the right way," she remarks.

Stephen shrugs kindly. "Most people wouldn't."

Clearing her throat, Liv takes a slow sip of her beverage before letting it sit on the table, angling her body to completely converse with her fried. The abrupt shift in body language has him eyeing her like a caged mouse. "Yes?"

"Remember when we talked about the idea of starting a firm?" Livy begins carefully.

Stephen groans, covering his eyes dramatically. "I don't practice anymore, Liv. You know that. I left that life behind."

"I know, Stephen. I'm not talking about a law firm. I'm talking about crisis management."

There is a pregnant pause before he relaxes back against the cushions, features widening in attention. "I'm listening."

/

The benefit is bustling with moving bodies, Washington's elite, aids, dutiful citizens. The air is tainted with the scent of fur and animal feces, and the sun is warm on his face. Back straight, façade set. Mellie is entertaining some photographers with a show of holding a bunny and feeding it bits of carrot, but his stamina is lacking, almost pathetically so. The show is getting old.

Fitz feels old.

Cyrus is on vacation, a rarity, but the man had needed it. At the end all, Fitz told Cy to go home and not come back for two weeks. He got his wish.

Downside to that is the fact he doesn't have a human shield to allow him to hang back, a wingman, per say. Just as he's wandering through the herds of people and animals from the shelter, shaking hands and giving half parted greetings, a certain dog catches his eye.

It's merely a golden retriever, all black nose and big paws. But memories are tang and copper in his mouth, and he remembers a night in bed, passing pillow talk like secrets. Olivia Pope had wanted a dog when she was a little girl, but her mother had been allergic. When she was six years old she'd imagined she had one, not unlike an imaginary friend; a golden retriever. He had kissed his name onto her back and listened.

Therefore, the dog draws him in. He'd promised that one day he'd get her that dog, a boisterous puppy. When he'd surprise her with it he'd have a bow around its neck. He'd pictured her face, and that thought of surprise leaves him reeling.

Dead hopes. Dead dead dead. _Dead. Murdered._

Sometimes he imagines that Olivia is dead to him, because that woman who stood in his office and betrayed every kiss-

That was not the woman he fell in love with.

He strides over to the dog and scratches the back of its ears, barely paying any attention to Amanda Tanner until she says something. "He's nice, huh?"

Moisture tickles him where the animal buries its nose in his skin, entirely responsive. Fitz cocks his head. "Yeah, he looks like a good dog."

Amanda giggles surreptitiously, leaning in to give a more one on one vibe to the exchange. "I'm actually adopting him. Haven't named him yet, though. Any ideas?"

He's lost, for a moment.

It's a seldom search for a lifeless future, dangerous, but needed.

_Pretend, _his subconscious screams.

He thinks of Olivia, and Sally Hemings, and Thomas Jefferson. He thinks of happiness, and letters of resignation, and of beautiful townhomes with dogs and children- a child- _their child-_

Fitz stares at this girl, this girl who probably knows nothing of devastation and heartache. Humoring her, he leans in to whisper, "Thomas Jefferson."

Amanda appears to consider it f or a moment. "That's a big name for a dog."

The edges of his lips are cut by his teeth, fake, everything is fake, but even that is an improvement from the ever present combustion and tearing that nags at him- a woman with hair like hers, a scent that hangs in the air.

The epiphany blows him down, a twister among delicate weeds and shifty dirt:

He has to fight this. He has to.

"It's a good name," he urges, grinning again, but then the smile has lost some of its bite and the sun that tickles the back of his neck doesn't seem so scorching.

/

She takes Huck out to a little diner after he helps her with Lindsey Dwyer.

He's doing better; his shirt is clean and his personal hygiene has improved, and the apartment he goes to when he needs to sleep isn't rat infested or cold. Olivia passes him the salt and digs into her cheese fries with gusto, the peaceful atmosphere between them something to hold onto. She's more at ease than she has been in a long time.

And it's not necessarily ease, really, because she will never be able to relax in her own skin again. There will always be this looming tightness to her shoulders, a nagging guilt, and although it's there she still has to _cope _somehow, so-

A girl can have a life, now. An innocent girl can have a future.

Liv doesn't think about the blood that drips clean off her hands, that stains them irrevocably and dirties everyone she touches. The white hat is a shield.

Even warriors have their faults.

Nostalgic, she gathers her napkin to wipe her mouth, readying herself to ask the question she's been pondering for a little while.

"Huck, I know you've been looking for a job."

He stares across the table at her with a stern gaze.

Olivia Pope knows what she's doing, because changing lives is old news. "How would you like to work with me on a daily basis?"

/

He's drunk (again).

Amanda Tanner is in his office for some reason, smile bright and eyes bright and _bright _against the dimly lit room. It's late, of that he's sure, and Cyrus is gone, and all he can think of is dead babies and _his sweet baby _and Golden Retrievers.

She leans over the desk to talk to him, and he wants to tell her to button up her shirt because who in their right mind would wear a black bra underneath a white shirt- _she _did that once, and it's _she _right now because her name is a curse word and sacred all at the same time and- oh.

Amanda is next to him, then, almost crawling into his lap and saying words, things that he can't process, and they all sound like prayers and the world is spinning but suddenly he gets it, finds the answer to the math problem, he failed Algebra-

"We can't do this here," Fitz slurs. "Back room," he tells her.

She tastes too sweet, on his tongue, when he ravishes her mouth, and all he can do is close his eyes and imagine a different taste, a different woman-

"Sweet baby," he calls her, and lies, lies, _lies._

_/_

The next morning, he awakes in his office chair, belt unbuckled but zip closed, and although he doesn't entirely remember he _knows._

"Delete the footage," he tells Tom, and Tom does.

/

Olivia is not a saint.

She has needs, too.

And it's easy, to reel a guy in and stomach the bitter aftertaste of knowing, easy to push it back when the itch becomes unmanageable. Still, still, still, it is to be said that this man with no face and no real pull does not give her what she needs, and she is left to finish herself off _as usual, _fingers and fumbling and stupid ideas.

She leans in and whispers in the stranger's ear, when he's spent against a mattress that isn't her own, "I've had better."

Olivia is not a saint, but at least she spares the deception.


End file.
